


Genesis2

by waldorph



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Bible, Future Fic, M/M, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-29
Updated: 2009-11-29
Packaged: 2017-10-03 23:13:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waldorph/pseuds/waldorph
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Be of us, Adam. Never leave again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Genesis2

**Author's Note:**

> So. I'm going through my Supernatural notes, and somehow wound up with a Star Trek fic. I'm not…really sure how that works, actually.
> 
> Huge thanks firstly to **arlad**, who reads these things when they're in their roughest drafts and gives me the faith to continue them, **izzyfics**, who read 3 incarnations of this sucker, I think; and to **merisunshine36**, who polished this up on her vacation.

When you open your eyes, there is a white space of nothing in your mind. There are words, and you know to hunt, how to build fire. Things have names which come easily: _fire, shelter, rain._ That you notice the heat of the world around you seems strange to you: it must mean that before—that lost in that great aching space of _Before_ you weren't _here._

The wind laughs at you, and curls around you warm and inviting, his hands cupping your cheeks and rifling through your hair. _You are here, now,_ he says, _be dear to me_.

The water giggles in the river, and sometimes you come down to play, are filled and aching and panting as currents swirl around your cock, squeeze your balls and stroke up and down like so many hot tongues on your skin, all over, too much. _Beloved_, the water promises, _we will take care of you_.

There are trees which give you fruit, which bend and offer their ripest trophies and you eat until you are full and sticky, lazy under the warm sun that soothes the sting of the wind that plays too hard.

The water comes up and gives you fish, and the sun gives you a part of herself, hot and crackling on leaves and sticks, and allows you to cook it. You eat it while it's too hot, and the wind swirls and laughs at you, and the trees quiver and join in his mirth.

You want for nothing: you are cared for, here.

_Where is here?_ you ask, shuddering and coming as the wind blows over you, as you spill into your hand.

_Eden,_ they all laugh, affectionate and warm. _Be of us, Adam. Never leave again._

_I won't_, you promise. _I won't._

The birds twitter triumphantly and the animals nuzzle you, affectionate.

You want for nothing: how could you leave?

You don't know why you are here: why Eden should love you or want you, but you do not know to question it.

* * *

_Strangers_, the wind says, as though startled.

_Impossible,_ the water disagrees, waves rolling as though trying to see.

_I will see,_ you say.

_Be wary, Adam,_ the sun cautions, warm and comforting on your back as you go where the wind leads.

There is a creature like the water, but she does not undulate, and is not transparent. She has long hair and dark skin and her lips bow into a trembling expression before resolving into something firmer. Her jaw looks like it could cut, and so you reach out and trace it, but your fingers come back clean and whole. She takes your hand in two of hers, turning it over and over, smoothing, and you watch the contrast. There are people behind her, and you tense, but they don't approach. "Captain," she says, and you frown. You don't understand the word: perhaps it is a name.

_What is it that She says?_ you ask the wind, who is exploring her with a frown on his face. The word has no relevance: no connection, a sound that has meaning for her and none for you.

_I do not speak Outsider,_ he replies.

A man comes closer, and he seems weighted down. Perhaps it is the strange coverings he wears and the contraptions on his feet, as though he has hollowed a tree and put his feet into it.

_"Jim."_ This is a name—he says it the way Eden calls you "Adam," but it seems strange that he should have a name for you, and that you shouldn't know him.

He has large hands and he puts strange things over your body. The thing makes humming noises like insect wings as it goes over your arms and down your thighs and over your chest, and you trace the path it takes. You don't feel different— course hairs on your legs and chest, the bumps of your bones and the dip of your bellybutton, the grooves of strangely raised white lines randomly placed.

_What does he look for?_ you ask, watching him frown at the device like it can speak to him; like he can translate the buzzing into words . _What does it tell him?_

_Maybe he is trying to see if you are part of his pack?_ the grass whispers.

_Have I a pack?_

_I do not think so,_ the sun says. _You are Adam. The only other of you is Eve, and Eve is not here yet. That is not Eve._

The man with large hands and a frown is watching you, and you look up at him.

"Do you know your name?" he asks, and these sounds have meaning: these sounds you know.

A name. You tilt your head; of course you know your name. "Yes."

"What are you called?" he tries again, and his voice sounds like tree bark.

_Perhaps he is of us?_ the trees ask dubiously. _Do not take from his hand_.

_He looks too much like Adam,_ the sun dismisses.

"Jim," you reply, wondering why he's asking you when he himself has called you a name. You look at the woman. "Captain." _Adam_. You do not know how to take that name and put it into the tongue he speaks.

He looks at you, and his shoulders curve inward and his forehead is wrinkled, and you press your fingers to the furrows, smoothing them out, but they pop back. He takes your hand in his big one, and then picks up a strange object from the black thing by his side. "This will…uh. This will pinch," he says. He takes a bit of the skin on your hand and tugs it, and you frown down at the sharp feeling. "Pinch."

He uses the finger of the hand holding the thing and taps the side of your neck, and you twist, trying to see.

"Right there," he says, gently, and moves slow, his other hand still holding yours.

It stings like the bee, who could not help who and what she was. You blink. He looks startled at your reaction, and then he rubs his fingers over the place where it hurts and says, "Shh, shh, I know, it's okay. I gotcha, Jim, I gotcha."

_No!_ the wind shouts, reaching for you, and you don't know why.

_No!_ the sun roars, and sends down her children to keep you from the intruders, tongues licking hot around them and bellowing smoke into the air in fury.

_No!_ the trees and grasses shriek, reaching for you and wrapping around your legs.

The animals thunder in and the birds screech and dive in, and you don't understand, your mind whirling with the agonized screams of Eden: _Adam_.

You fall into the black of sleep with a strange taste in your mouth.

* * *

Your dreams are very strange, and feel heavy, like drowning in mud. There are voices around you, but within you an aching…emptiness.

(Gruffly, "Why the fuck did it take him? If it is Eden, and I'm not saying it fucking was, because _what?_—where was God? We got him out easy; what planet just wants to role play Genesis?"

"I don't know, but it shifted pretty fast after we got out—place was a fuckin' graveyard." A lighter voice: you don't know it.

"Can he feel it? That it's gone?" Female, unknown. "He seemed … connected, and if it was feeding off his energy then—"

"I just upped his sedative dosage—what do you think?")

You are aware of pain: aches worse than the white space, tearing like thorns along your skin and burning too hard like falling asleep on the beach with only the sun for company.

When you surface, the frowning man is sitting next to you.

You're on a strange…it's not a rock, it's too soft. But it doesn't break away when you scratch your fingernails over it, so it isn't dirt or sand. And, when you sit up, looking about, it's not on the ground—it's lifted, so it's like being on a boulder. In a cave. A room. This is a _room_. Bed. The word is bed.

Your heart beats too fast, hard against your ribcage like it would like to leap out, and you realize you're wrapped in something—blankets; these are blankets, but it's so quiet. It's so…_quiet_. The air has no life—it's all so dead and stale and you struggle to unwind from the blankets, to sit up, to run, run back

"Jim! Goddamnit, stop— Jim, _calm down_," he growls, and you kick him off of you. It's quiet. The air is dead here. The lights are fake— there is no sun. There are no animals. Threatened. You are _threatened._

"Jim. I'm—d'you remember _anything?_"

"Yes," you say. You remember everything. But then you look at him, and wonder if he means _Before_. "No," you say, but that is imprecise. "I do not remember you."

You are in coverings like his: black, though, like a second skin, one stretched over your chest and arms and another over your hips and legs.

He sits in—chair. _"Jim."_

You hug your knees to your chest. _Adam_, you say.

He doesn't hear.

There's no one _to_ hear, you think, and hold yourself a little tighter, and go to sleep.

* * *

"Adam."

The man has ears that point like a fox's, and black hair like a crow's wing, and when he looks at you you think he can speak the language, you know him. This is Eve, the other of your pack. All that is left.

_Yes._

"Do you know how you came to be in Eden?" He sits on the bed, looking at you closely.

_Like this,_ you say, pressing your fingers over his mouth. _We speak like this, Eve._

His eyebrow lifts, and his hand wraps around yours, pulling it away from his lips. _Very well. Do you remember how you came to be in Eden?_

_No. But we have to go back._

_We cannot—_

_Let me show you,_ you whisper, and you touch your lips to Eve's—if you can show, your mind to Eve's, then Eden can exist again (part of you whispers that it's gone, gone forever, but you don't believe). The room shifts, filled with your mind's eye, and Eve cups the base of your skull, licking into your mouth. The second skins are hampering, and you slide out of them, leaving them forlorn on the floor before pulling Eve in. Because there should be nothing between you: no space.

_T'hy'la_, he breathes, trailing his fingers down your chest, and you shiver, leaning into the touch.

The kisses are slow and warm and remind you of honey, golden and sun-warmed and indulgent. He brushes the insides of your elbows, thumbs the wings of your collarbones and smoothes over your lower lip before taking it in another drugging kiss.

_T'hy'la_. You don't know why he sounds so longing, only that you want him to see you here, that he doesn't need to want for anything.

_You have me_, you whisper. _I'm right here._

 

He exhales, a long sound, and it is strangely like surrender (like fish who gave themselves that you might eat), but then he presses you down, reaches into a drawer for something which makes his fingers slick, but not sticky like sap. When he drifts that finger over your hole, a tease before the press inside, you gasp because this is close, but not close enough. Your cock is flush against your belly, beads of precome smearing against your stomach, and he watches you, avid, adding a second finger. He leans over you and you reach for him, but the hand not twisting fingers inside you bats it away. You startle: you have not been denied anything before.

_Patience,_ he says, amused, and you glare because you want it now. To be filled until he cannot look lonely; to be joined until he knows you are here, with him: until the union becomes fact. Eve groans over you, lines his cock against your hole and pushes in in one slow, wet drag of friction and you shout, digging your fingers into his shoulders and throwing your head back, rolling your hips to push down against him. Better than water or wind.

_Now,_ you insist. His hips stutter, and then he pulls out, slams back in, and it's not gentle, there is something wild and hungry as he buries himself into you, consuming like a wildfire or a tidal wave. You're leaking steadily against your stomach, and every time he pushes back in he brushes against it, and it shouldn't be enough stimulation, but it is, especially when he strokes that spot inside you that makes you see stars.

_This,_ you cry as you come. _This is all I need—only this_.

A choked sob escapes his lips, and then he's pulsing inside of you, head hanging down as he breathes harshly, and you push your hand through his hair, pulling his face up for a kiss. There's a slight burn and a feeling of being empty when he pulls out—not just physically, just… lonely until he lays beside you, pulling you into his arms and tangling your legs. You're leaking come out of your ass and you're a mess but you don't want to move. So you don't, you press your head against his chest and sleep.

You wake up to his mouth hot like a furnace around your cock, and you whimper, helplessly jerking up into the welcoming heat, sliding down his throat. He's not doing anything fancy—just sucking and letting you fuck his throat, but it feels amazing. It's over too fast, curling your toes and making you see stars as your hands fist in the sheets, and when he climbs up your body and kisses you you wrap your arms around him.

This isn't Eden—but you don't need Eden, not here, pressed against Eve.

You don't know where the food comes from, but it's always there when you wake up. It tastes faintly stale, and the air is still silent, and you don't know when it's day or night (this place seems not to have a sun), but Eve is there, and you think that that strange metallic taste and the bruise in your neck must be ordinary, here—must be a bitemark from the heat of passion.

* * *

You wake to another voice speaking with Eve, but you're too tired—too sated—to open your eyes or even move.

"He is…not Jim."

"Can you…make him remember?"

"He will hate us."

"He'll hate us if we don't. How much longer can you come here, fuck him— don't even try it, you asshole, that's exactly what's going on, I'm a doctor, I know shit like this—and then give him a hypo and go on shift? When exactly _are_ you sleeping, Spock?"

"I have been—"

"Yeah, I know, I read the log: so what're you waiting for, exactly? _Meld_. We need Jim back, and you're the only one for the job."

_Eve?_ You struggle to surface, but can't quite manage it; can't understand the words.

His hand brushes your face in a gentle caress, and he murmurs, _It is nothing, t'hy'la. Sleep._

You do.

* * *

When you wake, it is to Eve stroking your face as though memorizing you.

_You're sad,_ you realize. _Why?_

Eve looks at you deeply, fingers shifting on your face, and speaks aloud, in _their_ tongue, "I am sorry. The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few—or the one. And this ship needs its captain."

You gasp and arch as the white space fills—names, faces, a planet imploding and a black hole, Bones, Spock, Starfleet, Uhura, Chekov, Sulu, Scotty— Kirk. It hits hard, like a blow to the head, like being caught in an avalanche.

Your name is James Tiberius Kirk. You're the captain of the Starship Enterprise, a post you got by the recommendation of Commander Spock and Admiral Christopher Pike. Your father is dead, and your mother is planet-hopping. Your brother works on Earth Outpost II, and is happily married.

You're in uncharted space, charting it, but currently you're in the sickbay, in a private bed, with the metallic taste of a sedative hypo in the back of your throat and a stiffness in your joints that says you've been out a week or so.

"How—how long?" you ask, not meeting Spock's eyes as you swing your legs over the side of the bed and stand, reaching for your shirt. You're furious, and not sure what to do with that.

"Three months before we found you. It has been another month spent in retrieving your mind," he says, and he's not meeting your eyes. That, more than anything, is an indication of guilt, and an acceptance of your anger. "I had hoped that it would return to you on its own, or even with gentle prompting, however—"

"No, Spock. It was the…logical course of action." You walk towards the door. Spock can have the joys of telling Bones you're awake.

"Jim."

You stop, exhale and turn. "Yeah, Spock."

"I thought you should know—the garden did not take in Chekov, or Mr. Scott, or even myself when we beamed down to the planet."

"Huh," you say, and smile wryly—muscle memory, habit to throw it over your shoulder as you walk out of the room. "Lucky me."

* * *

This is what you remember: you'd been in your room, exhausted from a Klingon encounter that left five of your people dead and another twenty in sickbay.

You'd snagged some of Bones' good stuff and Scotty's homebrew, but you hadn't gotten around to drinking them just yet.

You'd been wrestling back from that place—that place where your jaw locks and your eyebrows slam down and reason takes a backseat to gut instinct. It saves you…more than it should, really. Your hunches are right on more than they've any business being, and even Spock has commented on the statistical unlikelihood of it, but— it's a hard place to be in, and a harder place to come out of. It leaves you feeling wrecked, like you have blood on your hands from enemies and your people alike. Every tear across the Enterprise's hull feels like a tear in your skin, and every time you have to perform a funeral and write a letter to family and log it with Starfleet… it doesn't get easier.

You'd been introspective, and tired, and wondering if Spock would kill you if you asked for a goodnight kiss (although, you'd thought, the look on his face when you asked might be worth the pain), and…

And then nothing. You'd wanted escape, and Eden had provided.

* * *

You're cleared for duty a week later, impatient to be back, mind filled with who you were _Before_, and you laugh about fig leaves, about Eden. You speak the language you were raised in, and you lose Adam, slowly, tucking him into a corner of your mind where he doesn't bleed through. The crew is reassured that you're you when you beam down to a planet and almost immediately get killed when the natives fire at you.

"Well, that's normal," you say to Bones, who mutters, but grins slightly when he looks down at his tricorder readings.

"You're probably allergic to the bullets, even though they only fucking grazed you," he snorts.

"Aw, don't lie: you just wanna spend more time with me."

Sulu finally breaks the ultimate ice of "we saw the captain naked" when he says over dinner after a long shift when they're all bullshitting, "Yeah, well, we all know Kirk's not compensating for anything."

You stare at him and then burst out laughing. Chekov flushes and laughs, and Uhura hides her face in an "Oh god, you're all so insane" way, and Scotty toasts, and Spock's eyebrow is mildly amused—but then, Spock knows from experience that you've got nothing to be ashamed of down there.

You smirk into your dinner, and slouch back into the chair.

Except that Spock does know from experience, and you spent a month (a _month_) in bed with him, and you could hate him for it. For _keeping_ you that way when he could have brought you back with a meld; unlocked your brain from the confines of _Adam_.

If it was anyone but Spock, you could hate them for it.

* * *

"I can't speak it anymore," you say one night, sitting with Spock in his quarters, playing chess. You and he don't fuck, not anymore. The tensile relationship you started _Before_ was subsumed into Adam and Eve and lost to it; now you play chess, which is vaguely pathetic, actually. "I've lost it."

"It was always more of a feeling you were communicating in," he replies thoughtfully, moving his rook. "Eloquent, but wordless."

"What happened to the planet, Spock? I can't find it on the maps, or in the databases. It's coordinates aren't in any of your logs, or the supplementals, or the private logs."

"In old Earth scriptures of Judaic, Christian and Muslim persuasion, man was cast out of Eden for eating from the tree of knowledge. It has always been a curious story to me: did you enjoy being without knowledge?"

"I didn't bite the apple, Spock," you point out with a slight grin. "I was more…force-fed the apple. If I remember right, you did the force-feeding. Does that make you the snake?" It's bitter, leaves a sour taste in your mouth—would have been better left unsaid.

"Would you have stayed?" he asks, suddenly intent, and you couldn't look away if you tried, even though it feels like he could burn you with the force of his gaze. "Jim. Would you have rather remained?"

You look at him, and think of the wind, and the water and the sun—lovers and companions and protectors, all. Of having everything and not needing to struggle—of not wanting. Of the way even that yawning expanse of nothing from _Before_ hadn't ached the way you do. Adam never itched the way Jim does; Adam never was compelled to run, or stand and fight. Adam was cared for in a way Jim has never been, and will never be. Adam would never have hated to be lied to, not if it was for good reason; not if it was for his own protection. Adam wouldn't have known how to hate it.

You sent a probe out to the general area you'd been in: the planet isn't there anymore. You're tempted to call it an overreaction, and you suspect Bones wasn't included in deliberations. You're not sure that, in their position, you would have been less likely to destroy the planet, but then you can think of dozens of planets where you almost lost one or more of your crew, and you've yet to contemplate the destruction of a planet in retaliation.

Then, you got tired of being a good captain and hacked Spock's private logs.

Phrases like, "_draining simultaneous individuals of energies_" and "_capable of sustaining multiple parallel realities_" jumped out at you, and you think back, remembering the rage of the planet. You wonder if it had been overloaded: if you'd been vulnerable and so it had taken you but Bones and Chekov and Sulu hadn't been.

But given all that—Adam hadn't _known_; hadn't been able to identify skeletons when he'd stumbled across them (and he had, you can remember that vaguely, now).

You move your knight. "Yeah, Spock. If you'd asked, I would have begged you to let me stay." _I wouldn't have known any different_, you don't say—it doesn't need saying. "Check in three moves."

He blinks down at the board. "Fascinating." He moves, and there is a silence that stretches—not quite uncomfortable, but not quite comfortable, either. Like you haven't been on the same ship for two years—like you don't know each other as well as you do. Like it's still the first few months when Spock was with Uhura and you were trying to navigate him without getting the I-Can't-Believe-They-Gave-You-a-Ship-You-Moron look.

"Your move, Jim," Spock prompts.

"Checkmate," you reply, and stand. Then he reaches out, wraps his hands around your wrist. "Jim."

_T'hy'la._

You look down at his fingers, then at him. _T'hy'la,_ you agree quietly, and he releases you. You lean down and kiss him, just a soft press of lips, two of his fingers coming up to trace your jaw.

The truth is, if it had been Spock, you would have done the same thing. Trying to make him remember you—splitting it with your duties, thinking you could save him without breaking him and run a ship. Believing, stupidly, foolishly, that if you kissed him hard enough, loved him enough, that he'd remember who you were—who he was. You would have hit that point where you couldn't anymore, and you would have forced him to remember if it had been within your power, because even now, with resentment and discomfort lurking under your skin there is this home truth: you need Spock. As Adam, as Jim, as Captain James T. Kirk, you need Spock.

You won't admit this—not under torture, or not even in afterglow, but you're…not sure how to do this as Jim. Not with Spock, anyway, because Spock knew Adam—Spock fucked Adam for a month; Adam who was needy and wanton and never entirely selfish. Adam, who _made love_, and Jim…just isn't that person. Haven't ever apologized for it, either, and you're not going to start: you like who you are.

And if right now, or for the next three—eight—however many years you have to give up being in Spock's bed because that's not what you do anymore, that's fine.

You can be a grown-up and deal with the fact that you and Spock are just… friends, now.

* * *

Things change as much as they don't. After bad moments, or during tense situations you opt to get drunk with Scotty or Bones or play chess with Spock rather than going to your room and being quiet. Once or twice you go down to the practice rooms with Sulu, but dude is dangerous with a sword and you want to be distracted, not decapitated.

Everyone notices, but Bones just smiles wryly and pours more Romulan ale.

"What are you doing?" you demand, blinking at Scotty, whose got his hand in the circuit box to your room like a kid with his hand stuck in the cookie jar.

Keenser gives you a long suffering look.

"Well," he says, in that way that _sounds_ reasonable and gleeful and is _never_ any good for any of you (fine, good, but not in the short run). "We've decided we don't like bein' plucked right outta the ship."

"That…makes sense."

"And I took a vote, and we all decided that even though I got the cloak over the whole ship, your room I'm doin' special."

You give him a long look, trying not to grin, because _Scotty_. "Took a vote?"

"Even Spock agreed, Capt'n," he says earnestly, and when he does that he looks six, not thirty-six.

"Don't blow up my room, Scotty," you sigh.

You get kidnapped by other sentient planets—trapped once you've beamed down and needing extraction, and when you get back Bones always looks panicked and his eyes are red. You're good at recognizing them, now, because the part of you that's Adam always uncurls and yearns, low in your belly, to stay.

It's usually a dead giveaway, and once you _know_ it's like the planet can't affect you, and you see it for what it really is (you've begun to call them Venus Flytrap Planets—VFPs, which is hilarious to hear Chekov say).

Extraction is always a little hairy, though, because they _never_ wanted to give you up.

"Okay, are you ever going to learn?" Bones demands as he looks you over. "Because seriously—"

"Is it my fault that sentient planets love me? _OW_, cut it out!" you demand, wincing and pulling away from the hypo. He rolls his eyes at you, but grins slightly.

"Shut up, you big baby."

"At least it didn't grab me off the ship."

"No, this time _you_ went to _it_," Bones snorts. "Can't Scotty scan for it or something? Shouldn't _Spock_ be able to identify a _sentient planet_, being the fucking telepath on board?"

You frown at him, because why _can't_ Spock sense it? "Am I good to go?"

"As good as I can make you," Bones dismisses, and then stabs you with a hypo when you're not looking because he is an _asshole_ like that.

"_Stop that!_" you yelp, and he smirks as you slide off the bed and out the door.

You wander into the belly of the Enterprise, listening to her hum around you. It's a thing: last time you came back from a VFP you got stuck in a room, now you want to… reacquaint yourself. You slide your hands along her railings, her walls, and think she's better than Eden or any variation thereof: your ship's never once turned on you, and promised to be anything other than what she is. She's tried to protect you all as best she can.

"You personify her often."

You look up at Spock, and then slide out from the wiring. "She's my best girl," you reply. He looks at you, and you sigh and lean against a wall. "_What?_"

"I only wish to express concern that perhaps your inclination to personify the ship is a result of living upon a sentient planet."

"You mean I'm trying to get Eden back?" You don't even know where to start with how wrong that is: for one thing, _Eden tried to kill you_ by sucking away your fucking life force or energy or whatever— and it took away your ability to _see that_. You don't exactly deal well with having your autonomy stripped, and if they hadn't blown Eden up…you would have.

"You said, several months ago, that you would have begged to remain."

You stare at him, because you remember saying that, but not—"As _Adam_," you say. "I would have as—if you'd asked me when I wasn't _me_ then—Spock, you _idiot_."

His eyebrows hit his hairline, and you grin.

"No, seriously. Is that— is that what all of you have been… _Adam_. I—if you had asked me before I was back then of course—and I would have _died_ there. How did you _not_—"

He blinks at you. "I assumed—"

"You know what they say about assuming," you say, and he blinks at you.

"I am unfamiliar—"

"Makes an ass out of you and me."

It's funny, because he gets this really pained look around his eyebrows when you say shit like that.

"You do not—"

"_No_, Spock."

"But, you beam down—"

"Because I'm going to let someone _else_ go? I… well, I'm not sure "handling" the right word, but I can deal better 'cause I have…experience. Plus, I'm the captain. Kind of signed up for that shit."

"That is… logical."

"It's been two years, can you stop sounding so surprised?" you demand as he opens the door to his room and you step in, expecting to find the chessboard. But then he's standing, stepping right into your personal space, deliberate. His kiss, when it comes, is proprietary; entitled. His tongue slides into your mouth like he's waging war with the intent to conquer, and if you grab his shoulders it's only because your knees are threatening to give out.

Spock's thumbs smooth over your cheeks, hands palming your jaw, and you bite his lower lip, sucking it into your mouth and letting it slide between your teeth before grinning, slightly feral, into the kiss.

Spock is stronger, and you're going to end up on your back with your legs spread and an ass full of his cock, but there's no reason to act like it couldn't end any other way, and you're laughing (hysterically; relieved) as you push him away, pulling your shirt off and throwing it into the corner just because you know it annoys him.

He gives you a look like he knows just what you're doing, his eyes dark and predatory, and you grin again, wolfish, as you drop pants and underwear, toeing off shoes and socks.

He slides a slippery finger into you (and where, where the fuck was he keeping the lube?), crooking viciously, hitting your prostate unfailingly because he is a bastard. You shout and arch your back, cock smearing precome against your stomach.

He presses kisses to your shoulders—to your chest, and you think it's random, but when you look down you realize they're scars. Spock is tracing your history as three of his fingers work in you, sucking bruises onto your collarbone and bitemarks on your shoulders and chest as though to say, _Remember this_.

"Spock, if you don't fuck me soon," you grunt, pulling up onto your elbows, "I am going to go find someone who will. And we both know how you feel about me abusing my power as captain—hell, maybe I'll see if Chekov wants to give the captain a—_Jesus fuck!_"

The thing about Spock is that he's strong and fast. You're flat on your back, Spock's hands on the backs of your knees, and he's buried balls-deep in you. Huge and demanding and you heave a breath, shifting as your fingers tighten on the sheets. He watches with a self-satisfied look on his face you are going to wipe off just as soon as you can do anything coherent. Any moment now.

He begins to move, unpredictable, watching your face the way he watched—it's ridiculous to think of Adam as an interloper, but he had no fucking business here.

"He," Spock grunts, because he's a dirty cheating touch-telepath, "was far easier to please and far quieter."

"Oh, fuck you," you snarl against his lips, reaching up and tugging him into an awkward kiss that doesn't last because of the angle, and you should be on your hands and knees, but maybe this is for Spock—maybe Spock wants to see you, to reassure himself that you're—whatever. You don't actually give a shit as long you get to come.

The rhythm, if you can call it that, is unpredictable—long solid, smooth thrusts giving way to brisk, shallow stabs—pulling almost all the way out but then just rocking his hips against you, buried deep inside.

You're saying ridiculous, filthy things ("Spock, yeah, so good, fuck want to feel you, c'mon, in me, give it to me"), a hand wrapped around your cock and tugging almost half-heartedly at it. Spock doesn't raise his eyebrow, just smirks, a queer twist of his lips that would be an absurdly wide beam on anyone else, and you reach up with your free hand, touch it, and he takes your fingers into his mouth, sucking, and you're so close, and it's like he knows and takes it as a personal challenge, stroking your prostate every time until you can't hold on, and you're falling over the edge, seizing up and striping your chest and jesus christ your _chin_ with sticky strings of come.

You sag, boneless, hand falling from his lips onto the pillow beside your head. Spock doubles down, fucking harder, rougher, the sound of his balls slapping against your ass and his harsh breathing the only things in the room but sounding like fucking _music_, and you squeeze down around him even though you'll regret it tomorrow when you're sprawled in the captain's chair, because you want to feel this, and you want to watch him fall apart—want to _take him_ apart.

"C'mon, Spock," you encourage. "Wanna feel you in me, fill me up."

And he grunts, thrusts a few more times, ragged and graceless, and then shudders, and you can feel it, hot inside you.

He pulls out slowly, a wet drag of friction that feels delicious, and you roll your hips, still sensitive, enjoying aftershocks.    
There's come dripping from your ass onto the sheets, and in a few minutes you'll make him get up and clean you, maybe with a washcloth or maybe with his tongue, you haven't decided yet, but right now you pull him in for a hot, lingering kiss.

"Jim," he says, like it's torn from him, eyes boring into yours. _"Jim."_

"Right here," you reply, easy, like there wasn't a four month stretch where you were someone else. You're an asshole, and history is written by the victors. You and Spock are the victors, here: the triumph is yours, and Adam and Eden will fade into history and be lost in supplemental logs. You grin, vicious, and bite his lip, reaching down and drawing his hand to your face. "No one here but us."

He smiles then, a vague twist of his lips that would be a fucking gorgeous beaming grin on anyone else, pressing his fingers to psi points and letting him in because it's you, and it's him, and if he needs this then…

_T'hy'la_.

_Yes._   


* * *


End file.
